


Hypoxia

by orphan_account



Series: Restraint and Abandon [2]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Background Poly, Breathplay, F/M, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-16 19:22:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2281638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things get a little out of hand after date night, and Neal discovers that it's not just Peter he wants to submit to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hypoxia

By the time Neal and Elizabeth reach his apartment and stumble in the door, they’re both tipsy and breathless with laughter.

“Oh Neal, did you see the look on his face?” Elizabeth gasps, her eyes shining with mirth. Neal can’t help but break into a grin as well; she’s so lovely when she smiles.

“Why ma’am,” he drawls, tipping her a ridiculously over-the-top wink that makes her dissolve into helpless giggles again, “I do believe he found me distasteful.”

They’ve been to a performance of _Iolanta_ at the Met Opera with an up-and-coming Ukrainian soprano in the title role. It was a pretty good production, all told, but Neal had played with the character of Nick Monroe, the brash, uncouth playboy son of a Texas oil tycoon, and Nick Monroe had not enjoyed the opera _at all_. There had been one patron in particular who had found Nick’s comments about “Russkis” offensive, and his bristling outrage had given Neal the opportunity to lift his wallet. It’s amazing how good a distraction anger can be. There hadn’t been any particular reason for the con other than that he likes to keep his repertoire of accents well-rehearsed and a handful of aliases ready just in case he needs to run – though, if he’s honest with himself, he hasn’t felt like running in quite a while.

“That accent!” Elizabeth says, shaking Neal out of his reverie as she crosses to the kitchenette to pour herself a glass of the ’08 Merlot Mozzie has apparently opened. “What is that? Did you run a con in Texas? I thought I was going to burst out laughing when you started talking.” She waves the glass for emphasis as she speaks.

He grins again and takes the few strides over to join her, shrugging out of his suit jacket on the way and draping it over the back of a chair. “Nothing was ever proven.”

They haven’t switched on the lights and she looks breathtakingly beautiful bathed in the silvery moonlight streaming through the picture window. She has undone her pinned-up hair so it cascades down over her shoulders, and the figure-hugging dress she is wearing shows off her curves to perfection. He can’t help but stop and just look at her. He’s been doing this _thing_ with Sara and Elizabeth and Peter for months now but he still feels overwhelmed sometimes to think about the enormity of it. He’s been half in love with the Burkes since that first day he’d gone to Peter’s house and found Elizabeth there. Their relationship had seemed so perfect and solid compared with the tempest that he and Kate had been. To find out that he could have that, that he and Sara could both have that, has been – well. Exhilarating. His biggest score yet. He’s stolen the Burkes.

Elizabeth takes a sip of her wine and looks up at him over the rim of her glass with a glint in her eyes, as if she knows what he’s thinking. That impish expression is always his undoing, and she knows it. Neal crowds her up against the counter and strokes her face, making her shiver, before brushing his mouth against hers. There's a clink as she sets the glass aside and he licks the taste of Merlot from her lips, earthy and fruity and dark. Her lips part in a soft sigh and he presses the advantage, twining their tongues together hot and eager. She moans into his mouth and kisses him back with equal fervour, biting his lower lip and shuddering when he trails his hands up over her breasts and teases her nipples into hard points through her dress. She brings her hand up to tangle in his hair, pulling his head down so she can mouth wetly at his throat and worrying a tendon with her teeth in a way that makes his dick go from interested to unbearably hard. He presses his erection against her hip, and she begins to pop his shirt buttons with her other hand, haphazardly.

“Neal,” she murmurs against his skin, “bed?”

That’s not what he wants most right now, so he shakes his head and lifts her up to sit on the edge of the counter, making her giggle again. The laughter turns into a gasp of anticipation as he hikes up her dress and slips off her underwear before sinking to his knees in front of her.

“Oh,” she says, half a sigh, and spreads her legs for him. Neal loves her like this, shameless and open and wanton. The desire to taste her is a compulsion, so he trails feather-light kisses over her labia, and then firmer, wetter kisses that make her squirm. He flicks his tongue over her clit gently, once, twice, not giving her the pressure that he knows she needs. She bucks and moans, trying to get him where she wants him, but he's relentless, tracing rhythmic patterns with his tongue until she’s writhing and keening and dripping wet. He slides two fingers into her and then three, watching her body draw them in greedily, and brushes his thumb lightly against her swollen clit, still teasing, still not what she wants.

“Neal,” she says, a note of command in her voice that sends a frisson of excitement through him. She tangles both of her hands in his hair, pulls him down until his nose is pressed right up against her pubic bone, crosses her legs behind his head and holds him there. He’s trapped, can do little more than rock his fingers inside her and lick her clit the way he knows is sure to work. He can’t breathe, can’t move, and the pressure of his cock against the seam of his dress pants is just this side of painful. It’s exquisite agony. His hips buck pointlessly, helplessly, and he’s desperate to get her off now before he runs out of air.

How long has it been? One minute? Two? His face is sopping wet with spit and her juices, and the taste and smell of her fill up his senses until that's all there is: salt and musk and overwhelming, consuming breathlessness. He can snatch shallow breaths against her skin but it's not enough; all they do is make him lightheaded. Adrenaline courses through his body along with the first twinges of panic as his lungs begin to complain. The fingers of his free hand scrabble against the counter and there are spots dancing in the corners of his vision but he doesn’t stop. Stopping is not an option. Finally he can feel her orgasm begin to build in the twitch of her thighs and the tightening of her cunt around his hand. He works her through it, licking and sucking her clit hard enough to make her cry out and buck her hips against his face as she shudders and comes.

“Good boy,” she moans, tightening her grip on his hair so painfully hard that his head jerks up. He gasps like a drowning man, oxygen floods his lungs in a rush, and suddenly he finds himself coming too – like a teenager, untouched, in Nick Monroe’s ostentatious white pants. She lets him go and he drops to his hands and knees, sucking in air in ragged, dizzying gulps. His head spins and he feels drunk, feels high on oxygen and wine and Elizabeth.  

Glancing up after what could be an age, he finds her staring down at him with the same mingled look of dismay and arousal that he’s sure must be on his own face. Well, shit.

“Neal, oh my god,” she says, flustered in a way he’s never seen her before, “I’m _so_ sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” She slides down off the counter to the floor inelegantly and lets her head fall back against the cabinet with a thunk.

Neal gives a self-deprecating shrug, tries for a grin but thinks it might come out as a grimace. “I, uh – it’s not like I didn’t like it.”

“But we never discussed doing anything like that,” she says, sounding genuinely distressed. “I could have hurt you.”

“You didn’t.”

He sits next to her, rests his head on her shoulder, and lets her stroke his hair soothingly.

There’s a minute’s pause where they sit quietly together, grounding each other. Elizabeth suddenly stills her hand, looks at him with an unreadable expression on her face, and says, “Did you come in your pants?”

Then they’re both laughing again, loud and breathless and joyful.


End file.
